


The Morning After: Eventide

by mirajanihiggins



Series: The Morning After [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied Smut, M/M, The day after the night before - Freeform, john is above average, no overt smut sorry, overly-dramatic sherlock, shmoopiness, sitting on pillows, soft john, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 00:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14296803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Evening has finally arrived. What hath the day wrought for our two heroes? Warning: it involves pillows.





	The Morning After: Eventide

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last part of a trilogy of "The Morning After", chronicling John and Sherlock's first times together. Please also read "The Morning After: A Brief Conversation" and "The Morning After: A Later Conversation" Enjoy!

The shadows were casting long in the front room of 221B. No one had bothered to close the drapes the night before, so the paling sun played with the silhouettes of buildings and other structures it passed on its way to fading out the old, worn carpet on the parlor floor. Inside the building, there was a surprising lack of hustle and bustle as the hands of the antique clock slowly made their rounds on the chipped clockface, as if reluctant to record time’s passage.

 

A door opened, somewhere in the back of the flat, and out strode one John Watson, looking very pleased with himself indeed. He sauntered over to the sink and filled the kettle, his plan to make enough tea for himself and his flatmate, who had still not emerged for hibernation. He hummed to himself as he worked, reaching up to grab a couple of mugs that his tall flatmate had graciously placed on a shelf almost out of John’s reach, just so he could come over and fetch them for him. John never quite understood why until, one day, he realized that this was Sherlock’s excuse to rub up against him “innocently”. That was the day they had sat down and had a long conversation, resulting in the activities of last night.

 

The smug smirk on John’s face hadn’t faded yet because, at long last, he and Sherlock had been honest and upfront with each others about their “relationship” and how so much miscommunication had led to some totally-unnecessary dramatics over the years. Sherlock had been so soft, so tender, so... _virginal_ , god help him, that John had just melted into a gooey puddle of adoration. Their lovemaking had comprised mostly of kissing, fondling, a blowjob, and a handjob, both of which were done with extreme enthusiasm on the parts of the parties involved. There was also much cuddling and many soft whispers and giggles exchanged thereafter, leading to a lie-in of massive proportions.

 

That had been last night, when Sherlock had largely deferred to John’s superior sexual experience. This afternoon, Sherlock had thrust himself into the center of things, pun unintended, leaving John with a strange limp and a determination to subdue the beast, whatever the cost, before it fucked him into the hospital.

 

As John bustled about the kitchen, the bedroom door creaked open and a sheet-clad figure shambled out, moving painfully. It yawned mightily before its bright silver eyes lit upon its flatmate and its mouth twisted disapprovingly.

 

“You’re far to chipper right now,” Sherlock grouched. “How long have you been up?”

 

John flung a look over his shoulder, surveyed the tall figure in white, and hurried over to his nearby chair, from which he procured an old Union Jack pillow, before placing said pillow on a kitchen chair close to where Sherlock was standing. Sherlock grunted and positioned himself to sit down.

 

“Not long at all, actually. I just put on some tea. Would you like a cuppa?” John asked, solicitously.

 

Sherlock’s bum carefully settled onto the pillow, adjusting itself for comfort. “Yes, please.”

 

John suppressed a smile at the overly-dramatic care with which Sherlock sat down. Despite the start of the festivities, John had, eventually, gained ascendency, and a modicum of control, over the voracious beast he had helped to unleash, and subdued it by virtue of superior weaponry. In short, he had fucked Sherlock to within an inch of his life, with the promise of more if he didn’t behave.

 

Sure to form, Sherlock didn’t behave. For the next few hours, John had decided _not_ to spare the rod on this spoiled child. The result being that Sherlock had finally ended up exhausted and John had exited the bedroom feeling more than a bit pleased with himself.

 

As John turned to deliver the cup, Sherlock laid his head down on the table before him, resting his forehead on his crossed wrists. John smiled and his eyes lit up as he set the cup down by Sherlock’s head. “Well, _that_ gives me ideas,” he gibed.

 

A touseled head rose up and two silvery eyes glared at John. “No,” Sherlock said, flatly and with emphasis. “I don’t trust you anymore.”

 

John shrugged. “I would have stopped at any time you requested.”

 

Sherlock snorted and picked up his cup and saucer delicately, taking a deep whiff of the dark fluid within the cup. “Earl Grey with a touch of whiskey. What’s the occasion?”

 

“Just being kind,” John shrugged, “and providing a bit of a pain-killer.”

 

“Hmph.” He sipped. “I love this flavor.” He took a long draught before setting the cup down. “We need a safeword,” he said, apropos of nothing.

 

One corner of John’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Perhaps, but I don’t think, ‘Oh, God, John, yes!’ should be it.” He sipped his own tea. “Too misleading.”

 

“Bastard,” Sherlock muttered. “That thing should come with a warning label and an attorney’s card attached.”

 

John snorted his tea out through his nose and back into the cup. As he cleaned his face and cup and poured himself some clean tea, he stated, “You knew what you were getting. Weren’t you the one with it stuffed in your mouth, mumbling something about...”

 

“All right, all right!” Sherlock acceded, querulously. “So I noticed it was... _above average_ in size. That does _not_ translate to how it feels when it’s...” and he made a hand gesture indicating shoving something upwards, accompanied by an ascending whistle.

 

This time, John managed to swallow before he laughed. “You told me you wanted to try it. The blame is on _you_ if the first time didn’t deter you from a repeat performance!” He eyed Sherlock fondly as he chuckled to himself.

 

“It was the number of times _after_ that that did the damage,” Sherlock groused.

 

John shrugged again. “Not my fault if you’re voracious,” he sniped back. “I didn’t hear you say, ‘no’”

 

Sherlock glared up at him. “You know I become largely unintelligible once sexual contact is initiated!” he accused. “I couldn’t have said, ‘no’ if I’d tried!”

 

“To repeat,” John clarified, “saying, ‘oh, John, oh, John, oh, John’ is _not_ a clear indicator of a desire to stop shagging.” He took another swig of tea as he leaned back casually against the counter. “I believe that you clutching at my bum and yelling, ‘faster’ and ‘harder’ is also another dead giveaway...”

 

“Dick,” Sherlock spat out. “you have introduced me to a new drug and are now my sole purveyor, and _still_ you stand there and taunt me while I sit here in pain...”

 

_**God** , I love this man…_

 

“Not taunting, Sherlock. Just a bit of teasing,” John chuckled as he pulled away from the counter and, after walking around the table, bent over to bestow a kiss amidst the rumpled brown curls atop Sherlock’s head. A slender hand reached up and curled around John’s neck, keeping him there.

 

“I love you, you know,” John murmured into his flatmate’s ear.

 

The hand squeezed slightly. “Love you, too,” Sherlock murmured back, turning his head slightly in John’s direction. “Even though you just fucked me into next week,” he added. He looked up, his face a bit tight, as if expecting bad news. “ _Now_ what?”

 

“Order some takeaway, put on the telly, spend a quiet night in?” John suggested, his voice gentle and amused. He knew what Sherlock had feared to hear. _Best give the lad a night off._

 

Sherlock relaxed, releasing his pent-up anxiety with a sigh. “Satisfactory. I choose the subject matter.”

 

As John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock warned, “You _owe_ me.”

 

Barely suppressing a smile, John kissed Sherlock on the head like a petulant child and conceded the argument. “All right, love. Your choice.”

 

The softest look stole over Sherlock’s face as he whispered, “You called me...” His eyes, which had been sharp as steel, turned into pools of quicksilver.

 

“Yes, I did,” John admitted, unabashedly. “Do you mind? I mean, I know you don’t understand endearments...”

 

“No,” Sherlock replied. His eyes were actually just a tad misty when John looked into them. “No, I don’t mind. Not one bit.” He stretched up for a kiss and John complied gladly. Suddenly, his face hardened again. “But only when we are alone,” he added, sternly, pointing a finger at John. “It wouldn’t do for Scotland Yard to...”

 

“God forbid!” John laughed, throwing up his hands in mock horror. “We’d, neither one of us, _ever_ hear the end to _that_!” Sherlock nodded, smiling a besotted smile up at his new lover.

 

“So, how about I call out, you put on some pyjamas, and we’ll get comfortable for the evening, yeah?” John suggested.

 

Sherlock nodded and, after carefully extracting himself from the padded chair, limped into the back bedroom. A voice drifted out through the partially-closed door. “An ice pack would be nice, too!”

 

John just shook his head in amusement as he picked up the phone to dial.

 

_**God** , I love that man…_

 


End file.
